


you cause lanterns to light

by PardonMyManners



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Forced Marriage, I try to write show canon, Post Season 7, Romance, Sansa Stark is Queen in the North, Slow Burn, Smut, Some Brienne and Jamie, beta? whats a beta?, some Jon and Dany, the angst is strong with this one
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-29 01:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15061724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PardonMyManners/pseuds/PardonMyManners
Summary: The door behind her burst open, letting in a wave of cold, startling her so badly she nearly dropped the vial in her hand. She turned, brushing aside a strand of hair that had worked itself free, and froze. Her heart leapt into her throat and stayed there. Relief, so acute it brought tears to her eyes, swept over her.“Jon,” she breathed, unaware the entire infirmary had gone still, watching the reunion of their king and queen with keen interest. His eyes were wide and dark as he stared at her and, after a moment, he gave her a brilliant smile filled with almost painful relief.--Post-season seven





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Who knows man. I've been toying with a post-season 7 fic for awhile. I can make no promises on update times, life is crazy, but I miss writing these two and really wanted to post something. This story essentially implies Jon knows the truth of his parentage and that he is unaware that the Night King has broken through the wall.

It snowed heavily the day of Sansa’s third wedding. By the time the sun had begun to set, however, the unforgiving torrent had receded to a gentle snow fall. To Sansa, it seemed as though the whole of the North was holding its breath.

Of all her marriages, this was the least expected and, in some ways, the most terrifying.

There was an air of morbidity throughout the castle. Forced smiles etched upon the faces of the servants and voices reduced to uncertain whispers. Battle loomed upon the horizon like the deadly gleam of an executioner’s blade, but there was warmth yet around the hearth and a final celebration to be had before the end. Those who remained took what pleasures and comforts they could.

Arya stood by the frosted window in the chamber that had once belonged to their parents as a maid dressed Sansa’s hair. Fading light illuminated Arya’s angular face that was all at once young and old, like Crone and Maid, separate… yet somehow eternally entwined. Arya had not revealed all that had befallen her since the day their father had been beheaded, but she’d said enough to have earned the shadows in her eyes.

Sansa’s serving girl slipped the final pin into her intricately woven hair and Arya murmured a quiet dismissal, not bothering to turn around. The poor girl immediately obeyed, half running to escape. Arya was like a living wraith; the ghost of a girl that some in the castle still remembered, brought back to violent life. Most feared her. They had reason to.

Sansa might have been irritated by her sister’s flippant dismissal, but they needed to speak and had had precious little time to do so. In truth, she had no idea what to say.

“He is miserable, you know,” Arya said at last. Still, she did not turn.  

Sansa swallowed, staring at herself in the only remaining mirror in all of Winterfell. It had belonged to their mother. She looked lovely in a simple woolen gown of white, edged in gray fur. A direwolf, fangs barred, danced at its high neckline. She had stitched it herself, taking extra care on each and every fang. She knew Jon was miserable, ached with the knowledge, in fact.

“Yes.”

“And still you will go through with this?” Her tone was flat, emotionless.

Sansa stifled a sigh, straightening her spine. “I will.” There were many reason she’d agreed to the marriage. Some of them selfish, some not. She would not back down now.

Arya was silent for a long while. Long enough for the hair to prickle along the barred nape of Sansa’s neck. “Very well. I’m going down to take Bran.”

Sansa would not have heard Arya move if she hadn’t been watching her in the mirror. She was utterly silent.

“Arya…” Sansa said before she could help herself. She was afraid. Afraid of what was coming and afraid of what was already here. She did not turn, watching the world through a fuzzy reflection.

Her sister, small and dark and fearsome, paused and faced her at last. The ice of her gaze warmed just a fraction, cracking just enough to bring Sansa some small amount of comfort.

“I don’t trust Daenerys,” Arya said shortly, her only explanation.

 _But I trust you_ , were the unspoken words that hung between them like smoke, quickly dissipating.

Sansa offered a tentative smile through the mirror, one Arya returned before disappearing like another ghost into the hall.

-

Sansa walked the trail to the weirwood with her head held high, but she was not so impenetrable as to not recall her previous walk through the darkened godswood. She had been nervous but hopeful that dreadful night, dreaming of a better life, of safety. She had been such a fool. Sometimes she could still feel him inside her, wriggling like a fetid worm. At night his presence lingered in the shadows of her room, maniacal and cruel. She suspected that she would never be free of him.

There were no dreams now, as her boots tread through freshly packed snow. No dreams to cling to; only the now, the present. There was space for nothing else in the Long Night.

Soft lantern light guided her path and she could feel eyes in the darkness as their banner men watched her steady trek from the castle. No one spoke. She heard not so much as a whisper from the darkness. There was an almost prophetic weight in the night, a sense that the wheels of fate were churning and only the Gods knew their purpose.

Jon awaited her before the weirtree like something out of legend.

He was dark and solemn, wearing the cloak she’d made him what felt like so many lifetimes before, when finding him again had brought such hope, such joy. He had trimmed his beard and he wore, for the first time, an iron crown of jagged spires. It made him look dangerous, untouchable, and unreachable. If Daenerys was present, Sansa could not find her in the crowd that gathered in the wavering ring of light, and for that she was grateful. The Dragon Queen had avoided her for weeks, leaving rooms as she entered, and speaking to her only when it was entirely unavoidable.  Sansa could not blame her, though true empathy eluded her. She had never known love and could not fathom its depths.  Marriage was a contract, a duty a woman of her station had to fulfill, nothing more. Despite the truth of their relation, she knew from the overheard whispers of servants, that Jon spent most nights in Daenerys's tent outside the castle walls. The gods certainly had a cruel sense of humor.

Sansa forced herself to meet Jon’s eyes, her heart in her throat. He still had that look, the one he’d had since Sam had first related his tale and Bran had confirmed it. As if all the world had betrayed him. Sansa supposed she was little better. His suffering had become her opportunity and Sansa had learned to grasp opportunities when they presented themselves, no matter how distasteful they might be.

He extended a hand and she extended hers. He wore gloves and she had opted not to, somehow relishing the bitter cold biting at her delicate skin. It was a reminder, a ward against the demons inside her; the North was in her blood, too.

Arya and Bran materialized from the darkness and she could not help the tightening in her breast and the pride that rose in her throat despite all that had changed, despite their collective scars. The world had tried to rip them apart, to take them one by one, but they had found one another again. They were together again, if only for this brief moment. It would have to be enough.

Together, she and Jon knelt before the Heart tree as the wind howled through the trees. Sansa could almost feel the specter of her father. So many dead. So many left to linger, just out of reach. She felt them now and wondered if they approved, though it hardly mattered now.

Jon’s fingers tightened around hers, holding the terrors of the night at bay for just a little bit longer.

-

After the feast, Sansa undressed carefully, setting aside each layer and stocking, lining her hair pins carefully along her vanity one by one. The hall was more boisterous now that she and Jon had departed, the sounds of laughter and raised voices echoing down the corridor. Daenerys had only stayed long enough to raise a perfunctory toast before making some excuse about preparations for their imminent departure, refusing to meet Sansa’s eye. Tyrion Lannister had stayed, however, and he was one of the few people who could still make her smile. He alone seemed pleased by their arrangement. Relieved even. Sansa thought she understood; Jon had been an unexpected foil in his plots and plans.

Their people could more readily assuage their fears in mead and laughter with their monarchs abed. And, not for the first time, Sansa envied them. She and Jon had not danced and she had not expected to. She smiled courteously at those who did, twirling mutely across the hall to simple music, and sipped from her glass, nursing her watered down wine, watching as Jon downed at least four glasses. He did not meet her eye and spoke to no one, dark and brooding.

Jon entered through an adjoining door and her heart trembled, fingers pausing on the neat line of her hair pins as she gathered enough courage to turn toward him. She wore only her night trail and thin understockings. How would he claim her, she wondered, despite herself, and clasped her hands together to hide a tremble. Visions of her last wedding night threatened to overtake her. She was certain Jon would never intentionally hurt her, but from everything she’d seen of the world, everything she had learned, men were like raving beasts when it came to bedding women.

Jon did not acknowledge her. He had removed his cloak and jerkin and wore only his loose shirt and trousers. He carried his sword in hand and set it beside her –no, _their-_ bed as if he’d always slept there. Only when that was done did he raise his eyes to hers.

“We’ll hold the coronation tomorrow,” he said gruffly. The bed sat between them, like an ocean splitting continents. His expression was unfathomable and her heart broke for the closeness they had lost and would likely never recover. He loved Daenerys Targaryen, but to protect the North, to protect his family and his people, he’d married Sansa instead. She wondered if he would ever forgive her.

“Very well,” she replied, ducking her head.

Jon sighed and paced to the hearth, bracing a forearm on the mantel and staring into the flames.

Sansa bit her lip before she leapt into turbulent seas. She moved toward him and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. The muscles beneath tensed.

“Jon I’m sor-“

“Don’t,” he rasped harshly, surprising her, and she removed her hand as though burned.

“The North will be yours when I am gone,” he pressed, staring ever into the fire. She wondered if he saw prophecy there, if he’d been claimed by the god of flames as the Red Witch had intended. “They’ll turn to you if we fail, you’ll need to take them south. Try to treat with Cersi, load them on boats if you have to-“

“Jon, please,” she begged, feeling the darkness creeping in. “You will not fail.”

He scoffed and met her pleading stare with something bordering on indifference. “If we do, you’ll need to be ready.”

Sansa nodded and, on impulse, grasped his hand. He’d removed his gloves and his skin was rough and warm. It gave her courage.

“I will do whatever I must to protect them.”

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. “I know you will. I trust no one more to the task.”

Sansa was pleased despite herself. Jon squeezed her hand gently before releasing her and settling into a nearby chair.

“Get some sleep, Sansa,” he said in a tone that brokered no further conversation. Sansa bit her lip, feeling oddly dejected, and climbed into her bed. She settled beneath the furs and closed her eyes but did not sleep for a very long time. Jon never moved, never made a sound, but when she cracked her eyelids once, there were tears shinning on his cheeks. She wondered who they were for.

She had never felt more lonely.

-

The crown was a heavy thing on her brow. Iron and ancient, pulled from the tombs of her ancestors. Once, Sansa had coveted a crown. Once, she had dreamed of being a queen. Now, she would give it all away just to see her mother one more time. To hear her father laugh. To see Robb smile. To have her family and her home as it was.

The hall had cheered when Jon set it upon her brow, startling her. There was a fierce pride in the faces of the men gathered; she had won their loyalty. Lyanna Mormont had looked particularly smug as she raised her child’s voice to the throng. Her approval somehow meant the most. Daenerys had stood at Jon’s side, a placid smile etched upon her perfect face, silent and watchful. There was no feasting, there was too much to prepare, too much to do. Their armies would be marching North come dawn, heading for the Wall to join what remained of the Night’s Watch. Jon had left directly after her brief coronation ceremony with the Dragon Queen in tow to muster their commanders and discuss strategy, and Sansa had busied herself tending to the packing of supplies. Their army was taking most of their stores, those that remained behind with her would have to ration. Arya helped, a silent shadow, quietly directing young men and women as they saw to heavily laden carts.

Jon had told Arya to stay behind, and they had argued fiercely. They had spoken little since and it hurt her to think their last words to one another might be in anger but could think of little to help. After all, Sansa was privately grateful she would not be alone. Brienne would be going North to fight and she suspected Jon wanted to ensure some measure of Sansa’s safety, or perhaps he could not bear the thought of losing either of them in a battle he was not certain they could win.

After she was sure preparations were well organized, she’d gone to her room and removed the crown, setting it upon the mantle of her bedchamber. It seemed to leer at her, taunting her with her every failing, her every weakness, till she nearly fled. Arya was waiting outside in the hall.

“You need to train,” she said, her eyes were hard, daring Sansa to argue with her.

“What?”

“The war will come here and you need to know how to defend yourself.”

Sansa considered for only a moment before nodding uncertainly. She knew she had little real choice but to agree.

“We start tomorrow after the army leaves, and then every morning after.”

“A-alright.”

Arya gave a curt nod and left. Sansa looked down at her hands, soft and demure, as a lady’s should be, and slowly clenched them into fists.

-

She found Jon atop the main tower of the castle, facing not their massing troops outside the castle walls, but due north, where darkness lingered like a death shroud. To see it made her heart quake in a primal sort of fear, the sort of dread that knew no reason and through which one could find little cause for hope or courage. It sung a song of death and destruction that was carried on a frozen breeze. She felt as though she and Jon stood on the precipice of the end of the world.

The sun was rising, bloody and uncertain, weakening before the impending night. It brought little comfort or warmth and snow began to fall. Sansa knew it would not stop again, not until the battle was over or they were all dead.

Jon turned suddenly as she stepped to his side and gripped her arm hard enough to hurt, startling a gasp from her. The kiss he pressed to her brow was hot and hard, like a brand that seared into her very soul. He pulled away and grasped her face in his hands. His eyes were desperate and bright with emotion, more alive than she had ever seen them. There was courage there, and light, and hope. They stripped her bare.  

“There must always be a Stark in Winterfell,” he said, voice rough. They’d had little chance to speak the night before and he’d not come to their shared chamber until very late, long after Sansa had fallen into a fitful sleep, taking his place once more in the chair by the fire. Then he’d been up again what felt like only moments later, leaving Sansa to pull her tattered emotions together. She was Queen in the North now, her people would need her strength, even if she had none left.

Sansa nodded, tears stinging her eyes despite all her attempts at bravado. She knew she would likely never see him again. “I won’t let you down. I swear it.”

He hesitated, uncertainty warring with something she could not name for a moment before he pulled her toward him and kissed her. His lips were dry and chapped and very warm. It was over before it began and he was striding away from her in a flurry of disturbed snow, his cloak swishing out behind him like the unfurled wing of a dragon.

She pressed shaking fingers to her lips. They burned with heat and cold and she could taste him there, on the tip of her tongue. “Come back,” she whispered into the rising wind. “Please come back.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Filled with steely resolve, she rose from her seat in the hall and went in search of Sam. They had preparations to make. War was coming.
> 
> The sun did not rise that day. She knew it might never rise again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on a roll, apparently. I'm not questioning it and neither should you :P
> 
> Thank you so much for all your reviews. They truly and honestly mean the world, especially after such a long writing hiatus. They are the fuel that drives fanfic. I will definitely respond to each and every one of them, but I was busy writing more story for you guys, so I hope you can forgive the delay!

“I’m not trying to turn you into a master swordsman so stop looking at me like that,” Arya grumbled, rocking back on her heels, clearly frustrated. They were in the godswood, shielded by thick tree branches from the worst of the snow, the watery sunlight breaking over the castle walls barely enough light to see by. Soon, the night would overwhelm it completely.

Sansa held a simple wooden sword in her hand like it was a living thing that might attack her at any moment, and scowled at her sister in what bordered on petulance. Sansa was equally as frustrated as her demanding task master; she hated feeling inept.

She was out of breath and trying to hide it. It wasn’t ladylike to be gasping and grunting. Sweat chilled on her brow and beneath the arms of her gown, making her shiver. It was only her second day training with the practice sword and she was certain that she was a lost cause.

“I just want you to stand a sliver of a chance if someone or some _thing_ tries to attack you, alright?” Arya pressed, tucking the sword Jon had made her beneath her arm. A pang stabbed at Sansa heart to see it. She hadn’t dared ask Arya if she’d patched things up with Jon before his departure, but she hoped so. They all had far too many regrets.

Sansa sighed. “I’m no good at this. The sword is too heavy and I’ve no idea what to do with my feet.”

Arya pursed her lips for a moment, considering, before a light suddenly sprung to life in her eyes. “You’ve always been a great dancer!” she exclaimed with more excitement than Sansa would have thought her capable. She was deeply speculatively.

“Thank you?”

Arya rolled her eyes, but it wasn’t unfriendly, it was almost…playful. She was smiling, a true smile, not something sinister and slithery, and it warmed Sansa despite herself. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It took me ages to learn the steps because I’d always been shite at dancing.”

Sansa snorted softly. “You nearly broke Robb’s toes at least a dozen times.”

Arya fluttered a hand at her and snatched the practice sword away from her, tossing it carelessly into the nearby snow. Sansa didn’t miss it.

“Alright, now,” Arya said, excitement brimming in her voice as she came to stand at Sansa’s side, “follow my footsteps.”

An hour later Arya was beaming and Sansa didn’t feel quite so out of her depth as before. There was the slightest spark of hope in her breast.

Arya called to her as she made her way back toward the castle and Sansa turned, hiding the smile that had been building on her lips.

“Tomorrow, for the love of all the Gods, old and new, wear _trousers_.”

-

Sam retrieved another candle from their stores and sat across from her at what had once been her father’s writing desk. Sansa’s head ached and she rubbed at her temples, willing the figures before her to change. For there to somehow be  _more._ Jon had been gone less than a month and already their supplies felt strained.

Jon. _Please come home._

“The Karstarks have a shipment of grain on the way and Cerwyn is sending sheep. That should tide us over for a time,” Sam said with forced cheer and a bright smile. It had taken him nearly a week to be able to address her without stuttering, but she was more and more grateful for his presence. He was good with figures and problems, and he was kind and sweet, keeping her company when the nights often felt endless.

Sometimes he told her stories about when he and Jon had been at the Wall. Stories that made Sansa feel deeply ashamed. She’d been so awful to him as a girl, so stupid and frivolous. The more time she spent with her half-brother turned cousin now husband -the title still felt misplaced in her mind- the more certain she was that he was the most honorable and decent man in all of Westeros. It was likely going to get him killed.

Sansa leaned back into her chair and stretched out her aching legs. The castle was silent and still, the servants long abed. It felt like she never slept, these days. Eternally awake with all the other ghosts that haunted ancient halls.

“Sam?” she asked in a quieter voice than she intended.

He looked up from the ledger he’d been scanning with a furrowed brow.

“Why did Jon agree to marry me?”

Sam colored instantly and ducked his head, clearly searching for an appropriate answer to her unexpected question. Realizing the position she’d put him in, she immediately tried to snatch it back, embarrassed by her forthrightness. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked-“

“When I met Jon,” Sam began quietly, staring down at the book in his hands rather than at her, “all he wanted was to be recognized. He talked about being the Bastard of Winterfell, how he always felt unwanted and overshadowed, and I could tell he was desperate for someone to look beyond his birthright and… and see someone worthy of appreciation.”

His words, as soft and uncertain as they were, felt like steely daggers in her heart, digging expertly into old wounds. Jon deserved so much better. She pressed her eyes closed, willing the pain away, forcing herself to focus on what Sam was saying.

“But now… after everything that’s happened to him, after what the Night’s Watch did…, well, I don’t think he wants that sort of appreciation anymore.” Sam paused and met her gaze, his kind eyes sincere and gleaming with new and interesting depth. Sansa understood then why Jon had chosen Sam to be the Maester of the Night’s Watch. He saw things others did not. He looked where others would not dare tread. “He has a stronger claim to the Iron Throne than Daenerys and they both know it. Whatever their feelings for one another, Daenerys Targaryen means to rule, not share a crown or demure to a King. I think… I think he wants to stay here, in the North, he doesn’t want King’s Landing. He doesn’t want to be King. I think… he coveted your brother for so long, wished he could take his place in some ways, that it’s all tainted now. It wasn’t worth the price of nearly losing his entire family.”

Sansa nodded jerkily, feeling teary, and averted her gaze, mind churning. There was so little she understood about her latest husband, so little he let her see and, though he had no reason to share the darkest depths of himself with her, his reticence hurt nonetheless.  They both had so many scars. So many open and weeping wounds.

Sam pressed on. “And he wanted to protect you, I think.”

Her gaze snapped back to his, both perplexed and surprised, and he looked sheepish. “I mean, I think –not that he said anything exactly,” he lifted his hands in supplication, “but well, I think he feels responsible for you. I think he feels enormously guilty for not being able to do more to protect you, to protect _all_ of you. He nearly left the Wall when he heard about your father. He did, in fact, we had to chase him down and convince him back,” Sam cleared his throat, changing course. “He didn’t want to have to marry you off again, he wanted you to be able to stay here, in your home...”

He trailed off and silence fell between them as Sansa tried to master her emotions. Eventually, when she felt she could speak without betraying herself, she cleared her throat and sat up. “Thank you, Sam… I, well, I am glad you are here.”

His bright smile caught her eye and she couldn’t help but return it.

-

Arya was late to their meeting spot the following morning and Sansa watched the snow drift haphazardly through the trees, dancing in the light of a single torch. Soon they would not to be able to meet out of doors. Already it was bitterly, bitingly cold.

“I brought you something.”

Sansa jumped and choked on a startled scream.

Arya smirked. She had become more… human in the months since she’d returned. Not like those first days, when it was like staring into the cold depths of a breathing statue, emotionless and cold. There was a familiar fire in her eyes now, that spark that had so irritated Sansa when they’d been little girls. The spark that made Arya who she was. Infuriating, yes, but also brave, and strong, and quick.

“You’re going to kill me, startling me like that all the time,” she snapped without real venom.

Arya rolled her eyes and thrust a slim package into her arms. Sansa frowned in confusion, weighing it in her hands uncertainly.

“Oh, just open it already.”

She knew what it was before she’d finished untying the twine.  She felt unexpectedly emotional.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, meaning it, as the weapon rolled out into her palms.  

Arya snorted and pulled the slim sword, more a knife really, from her hands. It was simple but elegant.

“Oh please, it’s passing at best.” Sansa thought Arya seemed… embarrassed, her cheeks pinker than even the cold might have allowed. “I had the blacksmith’s apprentice make it for you. Had to help him with the flume but we managed it alright. This is about as long a sword as he could make, so it’s a good thing you’re so small-“

Sansa pulled her sister in for a tight hug, cutting her off. Arya stiffened for a moment before sighing deeply and sinking into the embrace. She didn’t suffer the show of affection long, however, and pushed her gently away a moment later.

“Alright, alright, enough of that. You’ll need to name it.” Arya thrust the sword back at her hilt first. It fit perfectly into her hand.

Sansa frowned. “Name it?”

Arya nodded, some long ago memory a shadow behind her eyes. “Every sword needs a name.”

Sansa looked her weapon over carefully, turning it in her hand. It _was_ simple. Certainly nothing like the flashy swords she’d seen so many knights and lords carry.

“Lady,” she said, hardly aware she spoke. “I’ll call her Lady.”

Sansa expected to see disapproval when she raised her head, but Arya nodded curtly and said, “Good. Now you need to learn to use it.”

-

A few days later, she received a raven from Jon.

 _Sansa_ , it began in his familiar, rough script. _We are nearing the Wall but I fear it is all for nothing. We intercepted a fleeing group of the Night’s Watch who report that the Wall has been breached. We have sent scouts to confirm. If this is true, it changes everything. I will send word when we’ve a better plan. I think of you and Arya and Bran often. It gives me courage, knowing you are safe. Yours, Jon Snow._

She pressed the letter to her breast and closed her eyes, breathing carefully in and out to temper her emotions. She could hear his voice in her head. Picture his soft, small smiles, the ones he seemed to save just for her.

Fear threatened to overwhelm her, however. She played through all the horrible events of her life, and there were many, counting all the horrors she had survived. Her own personal and morbid prayer.

 _If I die now_ , she thought, _at least I will die here, in my home, where I belong_.

Filled with steely resolve, she rose from her seat in the hall and went in search of Sam. They had preparations to make. War was coming.

The sun did not rise that day. She knew it might never rise again.

-

Sansa stood on the parapets watching several serving maids hauling in the morning water, laughing quietly between themselves. She was glad they could still find reason to jest and smile. The well would freeze soon, now that the Long Night had come, and they’d be forced to use the cistern deep within the castle or make the journey to the glassgarden for water from the hot springs, but for now, people still ventured outside.

“You wanted to see me?” Arya asked, startling her terribly. Again.

Sansa pressed a hand to her breast to calm her heart and turned. Her sister didn’t look smug, merely expectant. She couldn’t help the creature she had become any more than Sansa could.

“Yes, I want you to train them,” she replied, deciding directness was her best approach.

Arya’s brow furrowed. “Them?”

Sansa waved a hand below, indicating the serving women and some of the younger boys and girls too little to have gone off to war who lingered in warm patches of firelight. “Them, the servants, the children, whoever else we can.”

For the first time since her return, Arya looked uncertain, shy even.

“Sansa… I’m not sure-“

“It’s just as you told me,” Sansa interrupted, set on her course, “the war will come and they should know how to fight.”

Still Arya looked hesitant, pacing forward to peer over the railing. The mantle of their shared childhood felt heavy on her shoulders then, the stretch of years a bridge that often felt impossible to cross. Arya braced her arms on the thick wood and said in a voice so quiet Sansa nearly missed the words, “They do not like me.”

Sansa frowned, honestly perplexed. “Who?”

Arya sighed and shoved away from the rail, refusing to meet her eye. “All of them,” she grumbled. “They look at me like I’m… like I don’t belong here.”

Sansa struggled to find the right words to say, reaching out to place a hand on her younger sister’s slight shoulder. She took it as a good sign Arya didn’t immediately shrug her off, though she resolutely refused to look at her.

“Arya… they just don’t know you. They hardly know any of us anymore. So much has happened to all of us… to everyone, they just need the opportunity to see who you’ve become.”

Arya’s jaw tightened perceptively and she kicked at the snow that had already begun to pile up despite the ever burning braziers and the best efforts of the castle servants. Soon, nothing would keep it at bay and they would be all but buried.

“You mean a freak,” she nearly spat, shrugging off her hand.

Sansa bit her lip and sighed. “You’re not a freak.”

Arya snorted. “Please. You’ve always thought I was a freak. I never do or say the right thing, not like you. People _like_ you.”

“I don’t think you are a freak,” she insisted sternly. “I just… I didn’t understand you. I always wanted a sister that could, I don’t know, be a friend, a playmate but you… you were just like Robb and Jon. Always playing swords and jumping in mud puddles. And oh how the boys _loved_ you, always asking you on adventures and treating you the same as Bran, I-“ Sansa looked down at her hands that she’d unconsciously braced on the railing. “I was jealous. They never wanted me around and teased me endlessly and I just, well, I just wished you were more like me so that I could have someone to confide in and play with.”

There was a long stretch of awkward silence where Sansa felt younger than she had in years. Younger and far more vulnerable.

“I’m sorry I was always so mean to you.”

Sansa laughed despite herself and turned her head to find Arya smiling at her, eyes fresh and bright with understanding.

“I wasn’t exactly kind to you, either.”

“You were occasionally insufferable.”

Sansa swatted at her arm which Arya neatly avoided with a short laugh. “Alright, I’ll train them. Have the guards spread the word. Anyone capable of holding a knife meets with us in the Great Hall starting tomorrow. We’ll have them help, the Guards that is, and see if we can dig up some weapons for everyone. Maybe we'll get lucky and a few will know how to use a bow.”

Sansa beamed. “Thank you, Arya.”

Her sister fluttered a hand, embarrassed, and turned to leave. “I’m not promising miracles, but I’ll do what I can.”

-

Sansa could not sleep so she practiced the steps Arya had taught her. There _were_ like a dance, fluid and graceful, and she took to them naturally, or so her sister claimed with just a hint of jealousy. Her arm ached from the weight of Lady in her hand, unused to the physical exertion. But she was, for the first time in her life, building muscle. She had no desire to be the fighter Arya was, but there was wisdom in her sister’s words and, well, it cleared her mind as nothing else did in the endless darkness.

Sometimes, as she moved through the steps, she thought of Jon.

Of that morning atop the Broken Tower, looking north. Of the look in his eyes… and the feeling of his lips on hers. Sometimes she wondered if he was eating or sleeping enough, or if Daenerys Targaryen was keeping him warm at night. Those thoughts she ignored as quickly and as forcibly as possible. They were foolish and dangerous... and they confused her.

She’d thought she was beyond prayers, beyond gods, old or new, but she found herself praying nonetheless.

 _Please, let him live. Let him come home._   _Let him come back to me._

A soft tap on her door startled her and she fumbled a step, nearly dropping her blade and impaling her foot. Placing Lady carefully on her bed, she opened the door to find Bran in his special wheeled chair, waiting in the darkness of the hall. A chill crept up her spine, the same chill that took her every time she looked at her brother, or what little remained of him. Oh, what the world had done to them in their time apart.

“The Night King has a dragon,” he said, voice emotionless and distant. “He is coming.”

-

The refugees from Last Hearth arrived in bloody, terrified droves the very next day.

Sansa met Arya on the castle walls as the guards fought to open the gates despite the near impenetrable frost. There were torch lights along the King's Road as far as she could see in the steady snow fall.

It had begun.

“Sam,” Sansa turned and called, spotting the portly man in the bailey below. It had become so cold she could hardly breathe; she could only imagine the state the people of Last Hearth must be in. _From porcelain, to ivory, to steel._ She had to be strong. She was their Queen.

Sam, looking as though he’d just rolled out of bed, turned toward her. There was a harried, frantic look in his eyes.  “Do we know how many?” she called over the mayhem.

He looked dumbstruck for a moment, but something in her eyes brought him back to himself. “A-at least three hundred, Y-your Grace.”

Arya and Sansa exchanged a glance. “The Old Keep?”

“It hasn’t been very well kept…” Sansa said, thinking rapidly as the gates wrenched open at last with an ear splitting shriek and people began to pour inside.

“It’s in well enough shape and there is plenty of room. Some of them will be sick and injured, there’s an old kitchen and guard barracks inside where we can set up an infirmary and quarantine anyone who is ill. The last thing we need is a sickness to take hold.”

Sansa was ashamed she’d never paid enough attention to the old dilapidated keep to know much about its layout and was supremely grateful for Arya’s presence… and propensity for exploration.

“Alright,” she said with a decisive nod. “We’ll inform the guard. I want everyone helping. We need to get these people inside and warm.”

They hurried down to meet the first refugees and Sansa intercepted Sam on the way, gripping him tightly by the arm. He looked terrified. “Send word to Karhold and Hornwood, they need to make for Winterfell, _now_.

“Y-yes Your Grace.”

She drew in a breath that burned. “And send a raven to Jon,” it hurt to speak his name for reasons she could not fathom, “the Night King is coming.”

-

Two days later, after they’d done their best to settle the refugees, Sansa was woken in the dead of night by a loud pounding on her door. She’d hardly slept at all in that time. Meeting each new catastrophe as it arose. Many of the people from Last Hearth were injured, many suffered from frostbite and yes, illness. All of them carried whispered nightmares in the dark, speaking of the walking dead and a dragon that breathed blue fire. Horror and hopelessness were carved upon every face and Sansa could find no real words of comfort. She wished with every facet of her heart that Jon was there. He gave her strength. He was their light in this endless darkness.

Some whispered that he was the Prince Who was Promised, and it was hard for Sansa to reconcile these rumors with the boy she'd known and the man she'd discovered in his place. Harder still to accept the notion that she was his wife.

Feeling as though she might collapse from exhaustion, a thousand terrible possibilities skittering through her mind, Sansa pulled on her heavy robe and ripped the door open. Devin, the captain of her minuscule guard, stood without, looking harried.

“What is it? What’s happened?” She demanded, wondering if he carried Jon’s death on his tongue, or if the dragon Bran had mentioned was circling above them even now. Or perhaps the people of Karhold and Hornwood had arrived…

“There is a man at the gates, Your Grace, he claims, well, he claims to be Jaime Lannister… and he has an army.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime sneered at her. “You think your King Snow is a good man, little wolf? I’d be willing to place a heavy wager on the chances that he’s fucking the Dragon Bitch at this very moment.” He was close enough now that she could feel his breath on her face, taste it on her lips, and her stomach swooped despite herself. “Hardly sounds like a good man to me. Running off with his whore while his pretty wife prepares for war in his stead.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A chapter three days in a row? Who am I even?
> 
> Your reviews are amazing and so are you. <3
> 
> P.S. Jon comes back next chapter, I promise, but I love Capable!Sansa almost as much as I love JonxSansa.

Arya observed, stone-faced, as a maid quickly laced up Sansa’s best gown. She was dressed all in black leather, a dire wolf stitched in muted silver on her breast, with a thick black cloak edged in dark fur secured across her shoulders; Sansa had made it for her, along with one for Bran. A matching set. Once her maid had finished with the laces, Sansa quickly braided pieces of her hair back, trying to ignore the trembling of her fingers, and rose, catching her sister’s eye.

“You’re afraid,” Arya remarked and Sansa ducked her head, wishing she were wrong.

“Leave us,” Sansa told her maid who jumped at the command, departing quickly.

She drew in a sharp breath and ran her hands over the front of her gown. “Yes.” It was no use trying to hide anything from Arya and it was refreshing to not feel as though she had to.

Arya tilted her head, a deadly sort of glint in her eye. “Did he hurt you?”

A chill crept up her spine. There was death hidden behind her question, the promise of pain and retribution laced through the words like silk.

“No,” Sansa said honestly, “But he didn’t help me, either.”

“Cersei would not honor her pact,” Arya said, changing direction abruptly, her expression still unreadable, concealed in shadow.

Sansa nodded, pacing toward the hearth and stirring the coals before adding another small log of wood. They would need to send a party to gather more soon and it was becoming dangerous outside the castle walls. The snow was endless, the wind bitterly cold, and ravenous wolves stalked the forest.

“I did not expect her to, no,” Sansa said, mind churning. Jaime Lannister was the last person she’d ever expected to see at her door. And now he was awaiting her in the hall, apparently having marched halfway across Westeros to fight at Jon’s side.

“We must be careful,” Arya said, hardly needing to. She’d die before trusting another Lannister, even Tyrion. She was slow to learn, but learn she did.

“We need his men. We’ve precious few who can fight among us… and if Jon cannot make it back in time…” she tried not to choke on the words, trailing off. Gods she was so tired.

Arya pushed away from the wall, retrieving Sansa’s crown from the mantle. She hadn’t touched it since the day of her coronation, in fact, she’d been tempted on several occasions to stuff it under her bed and out of sight. Arya turned the crown in her hands for a moment before pacing forward and placing it carefully atop Sansa’s head.

“You are Queen in the North, a wolf of House Stark,” Arya anointed, “And you fear no one.”

Sansa smiled and found that the crown didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before.

-

Jamie Lannister strode into the Great Hall as proud and tall as Sansa remembered. He’d always been an achingly handsome man, like polished gold. He was far more burnished now, with a beard forming on his chin and his hair grown shaggy. He was dressed in sensible clothing, heavily wrapped in well-worn leather and fur, his face roughened by cold and wind, and snow was melting in his hair. She did not miss the crudely carved wooden hand in place of the golden one she remembered. Something had changed.

Another man entered behind him, staying several paces back. He had the look of a hired killer; the sort of man that might cut your throat in your sleep.

Jaime’s smile and accompanying bow were sardonic at best, as well as his perfunctory greeting of, “Your _Grace_.” His companion bowed only after being nudged.

“Ser Jamie,” Sansa replied coolly. Arya lingered in the shadows of the adjoining hallway and Sam sat uncomfortably at her side, otherwise they were alone. Some broken, vulnerable part of her missed Petyr; he’d been able to read people better than anyone she’d ever known.

_He hadn’t been able to read you, Sansa, not in the end._

Let the dead lie, she told herself, there were enough of them roaming the world of the living as it was.

Jaime looked about himself, as thoroughly unimpressed as he’d been on his previous visit, a smirk curling at his lips. “I was _certain_ Snow would marry the Dragon Bitch, interesting that he chose to marry his _sister_ instead. How very… _Targaryen_ of him.” The irony of his statement was almost palpable.

“His c-cousin, a-actually,” Sam sputtered. Sansa gave him a sharp look and he quickly retreated. The truth of Jon’s parentage was not a secret she was certain they should reveal. Yet.

Jaime arched one golden brow. “Cousin? How interesting.”

“Why are you here, Lannister?” Sansa snapped, hating how easily he’d gained the upper hand.

“To fight the dead and save the world, obviously,” he said, waving his wooden hand vaguely north.

“I don’t believe you.”

His brow creased slightly. “Well, I am here, and I have brought an army so…”

“Cersei would say anything to protect herself and her throne. She had no intention of sending aid.”

Something akin to respect sparked in Jaime’s eyes and he leaned back, briefly reassessing her. “Do you suppose I am here to conquer you then?”

Sansa leaned forward, clasping her hands before her. “I _suppose_ you are here to serve _her_ interests, and she wants to rule the North and kill my entire family.”

“Perhaps, but the way your brother, oh forgive me, your _husband_ ,” his eyes sparkled with cynicism, “explained things, if he should lose his battle to the dead, well, it’s only a matter of time before they come for the rest of us. Not much point in ruling the North then, is there?”

Arya chose that moment to draw her dagger, the one Bran had given her, the one that had once belonged to Tyrion Lannister. She stepped further into the hall, leaned against the wall, and began to clean her nails with it. Jaime paled slightly, confusion plain on his face.

Sansa considered her response carefully, reading his face and searching his eyes as he shifted uncertainly on his feet. She smiled and it felt sharp and dangerous on her lips.

“Cersei didn’t send you here. She told you not to come… but you came anyway. Why?”

Jaime’s companion snorted and attempted to hide it with a cough. “Sorry, sorry, carry on,” he said and slapped Jaime on the shoulder. “Thought you said she’d be an easy mark, eh?”

Jaime ignored the other man but his cheeks had colored slightly. “I… I’m here because I gave my word I would come, and,” he hesitated, something like hurt flickering in his eyes, “and because I _am_ serving her best interests, whether she agrees with me or not.”

Sansa pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, leaning back slowly in her chair as she continued making a study of him. She was not the girl he remembered, she could see the realization blossoming in his eyes.

 _What would Jon do?_ She wondered for a moment, before the answer came swiftly and decisively. _He would trust me to make the right choice._

“Very well,” she said at last. “We welcome your army, Ser Jamie. As it happens, the Night King has breached the Wall and is marching for Winterfell as we speak.” The color drained from both men’s faces. It was almost gratifying. “So if you _do_ mean to betray us, it will be a short lived victory.” She considered mentioning the dragon, but figured they’d had enough shock for one day, and there would be time to inform him later. Besides, she _did_ need his army. She couldn’t risk him taking his men and running.

“Snow’s army-” Jaime began, voice wavering slightly.

“The _king,_ ” she corrected, “rode north already, before we knew of the breach.”

She could see him calculating, his mind racing. He was a brilliant tactician, she knew. They would be lucky to have him here, with all the Lords and captains of their armies having ridden north with Jon.

“How many men do you have here?”

“Less than two hundred, most of them members of the house guard.”

Jaime cursed and shoved his fingers through his hair. Sansa pressed on. “The dead hit Last Hearth already, the refugees arrived two days ago. Counting those women able to hold a sword and the older children, we have perhaps… six hundred.”

Jaime blinked at her and shook his head incredulously. “Women and _children?_ ” He seemed disgusted.

Sansa rose, pushing away from the table and moving slowly around it, feeling his eyes tracking her. She didn’t speak again until she stood before him, hands clasped lightly before her. She had always been tall for a woman, she was nearly at eye level, and met him look for look. “The dead hardly follow the rules of war, Ser Jaime. They will kill every single one of us, whether we know how to wield a sword or not.”

“Then leave,” he burst out, gesticulating. “Take them further South!”

Sansa shook her head. It was too late for that. With the snow and the rising cold, most would die of exposure and the Night King would hunt them down easily. The dead had no care for the cold. They did not need food or warmth or rest. All this she related to the shaken men before her.

“This is where we must make our stand. This castle was built by Bran the Builder, it’s stood over a thousand years. It was made for this. If we cannot repel the Night King here, then we’ve no hope at all.”

Jaime’s companion hiked up his trousers and shook his head at Jaime. “Well you’ve fuckin’ done it now, you great idiot.”

-

“Your trebuchets are in decent shape, though they will need to be calibrated, but your ballista are worthless,” Jaime informed her, bracing his fists on the war table in the Great Hall. Soon they would have to start housing refugees within it. Those who had survived the attack on Karhold had arrived that morning with more tales of death and terror, adding another three hundred bodies to their swelling numbers. If only more of them knew how to fight. She prayed that at least Hornwood would make it out in time. Every man, woman, or child killed by the Night King was just another soldier for his army.

Sansa frowned. “They cannot be repaired?”

Jaime sighed. He looked worn and tired, like the rest of them. “Not unless you’ve a decent blacksmith and craftsman hidden somewhere.” He seemed to be over his anger at her hesitation on mentioning an undead dragon among their mounting list of enemies. He'd been less than pleased at the omission.

Sansa glanced at Arya, who shrugged. “We’ve an apprentice.”

“And we’ve got ol’ Gerty,” the leader of the Last Hearth refugees chimed in.

Jaime gave the man the sort of look that had sent many common folk fleeing, but Sansa stilled him with a gentle touch on the arm. His expression turned from annoyance to shock, but she ignored him.

“Who is Gerty, Ford?” she pressed, removing her hand.

Ford, an old man with a missing leg and a bandage wrapped around his balding head, swallowed and eyed Jaime warily. “S-she’s the blacksmith’s wife, Your Grace. Nearly as good as her husband… Lord wouldn’t let her travel with ‘em though. She can help the lad.”

Sansa smiled at him, making him swell with pride, and turned toward one of the guards lingering in the hall. “Locate the blacksmith’s apprentice and this Gerty, show them to the ballista.”

She returned to attention to Jaime, who was now eyeing her with amusement.  

“Next?” she prompted.

Jaime shook his head, and returned his attention to the map of Winterfell. “The outer wall is weak here and here, we should-”

Someone broke through the hall doors, startling them all. Sansa straightened as Sam hurried into the room, out of breath and clearly frozen through, but face shining with excitment.

“My Lady, I mean, Your Grace, M-My lord, there is something yo-you should see!”

-

Sansa followed Sam and Jaime down a dark, dilapidated stair in the Old Keep, Arya, Jaime’s companion Bronn, and several guards at her back. The narrow passage smelt of mold and decay, but was far warmer than most of the castle. They were clearly below ground, where the hot spring warmed the walls better.

“One of the children found it.” Sam was saying, voice reverberating oddly in the oppressive darkness, only barely held at bay by the flickering torch light. The press of the castle above her made Sansa’s skin crawl; she’d never been particularly fond of tight spaces. “Poor little fellow broke his arm, but we managed to patch him up just fine, had to get the guard involved to keep people out-”

Sansa could feel Jaime’s impatience growing, so she interrupted, “Is it much further, Sam?”

“We’re nearly there, just around this bend aaaand, here we are!” Sam stopped and flourished his hand at a hole, barely big enough for a child, in an otherwise empty chamber. He looked supremely proud of himself.

“Please tell me we didn’t walk all the way into the bowels of hell to look at a fuckin’ _wall_ ,” Bronn groused. Arya snorted and Sansa resisted the urge to elbow her.

Sam frowned and took a torch from the wall, lighting it off the one Jaime held, and knocked a few more stones lose. After a moment, Jaime nudged him aside and shouldered his way through and into whatever lay beyond.

Bronn sighed deeply and pressed forward, carefully avoiding touching her, and followed after.

“Sam,” she queried quietly, stepping cautiously forward.

“Dragonglass,” he breathed, excitement clear in his voice. “ _Mountains_ of it, Your Grace. Swords and daggers and spears. Your ancestors must have stashed it here, maybe tracing all the way back to Bran the Buil-“

Sansa snatched the torch from his hand and began navigating her way through the wall, heart in her throat. One of her guards protested but she ignored him; she could feel Arya at her back, following close behind. Jon had taken all the dragonglass their men had been able to mine with him north, fashioning crude swords and daggers from it, leaving them woefully unprepared for an undead assault.

The chamber was huge and old, towering above her and stretching into darkness for what felt like miles. She could almost taste time on her tongue as she breathed deeply; it was very warm, warm enough that all her many layers began to feel stifling. She was certain that they were the first people to step foot into this chamber in a very, very long time.

Jaime held his torch close to a pile of beautifully made swords, of far better quality than their craftsmen had been able to make, that gleamed black as a starless night. He was speechless.

Bronn whistled low and Sansa moved toward him. “These might take out a dragon,” he said eyeing her approach meaningfully. It bordered on leering, but Arya at her back encouraged him to look quickly away. She suppressed a smile; the crude man had grown on her a little. Anyone who could effectively mock Jaime Lannister deserved a bit of respect.

Before them, carefully arranged on a rusting weapons rack, were a dozen four foot long javelins made of dragonglass. They certainly looked deadly enough, though she had a hard time imagining how they could possibly launch them effectively at the Night King’s dragon.

Bronn turned to Jaime, who approached on her other side. “If only we had something to launch them with, eh?” His tone was heavy with innuendo.

Jaime’s brow furrowed for a moment before a slow smile grew on his face. It was surprisingly sincere and it made him far more handsome; not for the first time, she thought he was utterly wasted on Cersei. He turned and snapped his fingers at Sam who stood near the hole in the wall, looking pleased with himself.

“You, Tarly, track down that blacksmith woman and the boy and have them meet us in the hall, and get some men to finish tearing down that wall and start hauling this stuff up to the armory.”

Sam looked to Sansa who nodded curtly. “Y-yes my lord.”

Sansa arched a brow. “I assume you have a plan?”

Jaime flashed her another of his charming smirks. “Always, _Your Grace_.”

 -

Later, Sansa stood atop the Broken Tower not long after their evening meal -though it was hard to tell with no sun to track the day by- trembling from cold, but refusing to go indoors. She faced north as though called to it, helpless to turn away. She could almost feel the Night King’s horrible glare through the endless dark, menacing and full of terrible promise. These long nights, he haunted her dreams. A nameless presence, lingering in the cold, not so much cruel as utterly indifferent. To him, her life, _all_ their lives, meant nothing.

To the west the Lannister army had set up camp, some of their men having ventured into the wood to begin clearing trees. They would need a great deal of wood to fuel not only fires but to make weapons and repair their siege equipment. She could only pray it would all be enough. So many lives counting on her. She pressed her eyes closed, breathing in the frozen air, relishing the pain in her lungs; it reminded her that, despite everything, she was still alive.

A long, fierce howl drew her attention. Through the snow she could see the tress of the wolfswood stretching beyond the horizon. Something nearly as white as the snow falling around her burst through the tree line. A smile grew on Sansa’s face.

Jon was coming home.

-

“Cousin, hum?” a voice asked from the shadows, startling her just outside her chamber door. She was nearly frozen through and eager to undress and warm herself by the fire, maybe even snatch a few hours sleep.

She gathered herself quickly as Jaime Lannister materialized from the darkness. She refused to glance around for her guards, aware they were somehow entirely alone, and lifted her chin.

“Can I help you, Ser Jaime?” She’d been tempted to call him by his other title, the one she knew he hated.

_Kingslayer._

His smirk was mirthless as he studied her. “You’ve certainly grown up. I think you’d make Cersei rather proud. She’s fond of you, in her own way.”

Sansa stiffened. “I can’t say the feeling is mutual.”

He made a soft noise in the back of his throat and shook his head. “No, I imagine it isn’t.”

“What do you _want_?” she asked again, tired and losing patience. He made her uneasy. Reminded her of the helpless girl she’d been, trying to survive in King’s Landing on little more than her wit and charms. How desperately she wished to leave that girl behind.

“I was thinking,” he continued, ignoring her and crowding further into her space. She resisted the urge to take a step back. He smelled of leather and oil and his eyes glinted fiercely in the torch light. “That if Jon Snow were your cousin, there are only _so_ many ways that could be possible. Now, poor Brandon was burned alive with your grandfather, of that I’m certain, having witnessed the _pleasant_ event myself, so it’s unlikely he managed to sire any stray bastards. Interesting that Jon has chosen to bed the Mad King’s daughter, hum? Ah the irony of time.” Her blood ran cold and she fought to keep her emotions from her face, she could tell by his growing smirk that she had failed. “So, if not Brandon, than perhaps Benjen? But that doesn’t seem quite right does it? It isn’t exactly uncommon for men of the Night’s Watch to run afoul of _that_ particular oath. And it certainly doesn’t seem worth all the secrecy and lies. Which leaves us just _one_ other option…”

“Jon, doesn’t want the Iron Throne,” she snapped, not giving an inch. She would not let him intimidate her.

His smile had turned cruel. “All men crave power, little Sansa.”

“No, _Kingslayer_ , not all men.” Not Jon. Never Jon.

Jaime sneered at her. “You think your King Snow is a good man, little wolf? I’d be willing to place a _heavy_ wager on the chances that he’s fucking the Dragon Bitch at this very moment.” He was close enough now that she could feel his breath on her face, taste it on her lips, and her stomach swooped despite herself. “Hardly sounds like a good man to _me_. Running off with his whore while his pretty _wife_ prepares for war in his stead.”

Fury rose hot and fast in her chest and she struck him across the face before she actively realized what she was doing. The palm of her hand burned. “What do you know of good men, Jaime Lannister?” she railed at him, “You’ve certainly never been one and your father was even more rotten than you. Your whole miserable family is rotten to the very core.”

Jaime was still grinning, clutching his cheek. “Goodness is irrelevant. Haven’t you learned that by now? It all depends on where you’re standing and pointing your indicting little finger. If we win this war against the dead, the Dragon Queen isn’t going to part with your beloved _husband_ easily. And then what, sweet wolf? Where does that leave _you_?”

He’d fettered out her deepest fears and dug his razor claws in hard and fast. She had no reply and he knew it. He shook his head as though he pitied her, studying her for another long moment before reaching out to her slowly, carefully even. She forced herself to remain still as he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering along her cheek. He was very handsome, and she could see the war he was fighting with himself behind the cynicism in his eyes. Here was a man who’d lost his identity, everything he though he knew. If things had been different, if the world hadn’t been what it was, she might have tried to save him.

“You’ve always been a pretty little thing. None of us gave you nearly enough credit. I certainly never did, but here you are, alive and well when so many are not, a Queen in your own right. However long _that_ will last. If you want my advice, little wolf, don’t let him give you half his heart. It will tear you both apart, in the end.” His fingers traced her lips lightly, eyes dipping low.

She lurched away from him then and escaped into her chambers, shutting the doors firmly behind her, heart racing. His laughter resounded in her head long into the night, tormenting her alongside his razor sharp words until she gave up sleep altogether and went in search of Sam. There was always more work to do.

Jon was coming home. _And he’s bringing Daenerys Targaryen with him_ , a traitorous voice whispered.

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door behind her burst open, letting in a wave of cold, startling her so badly she nearly dropped the vial in her hand. She turned, brushing aside a strand of hair that had worked itself free, and froze. Her heart leapt into her throat and stayed there. Relief, so acute it brought tears to her eyes, swept over her.
> 
> “Jon,” she breathed, unaware the entire infirmary had gone still, watching the reunion of their king and queen with keen interest. His eyes were wide and dark as he stared at her and, after a moment, he gave her a brilliant smile filled with almost painful relief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unnecessary bathing scene, anyone?  
> Four chapters in four days, pretty sure that is a personal record.  
> You all are amazing and I love you.

Jaime dragged his finger across the map, skin rasping against the parchment. “Trenches, here and here, as deep as we can get them and with a layer of wood and peat, as much as we can spare.”

Sansa bit her lip, considering. “We’d need a month to dig, and it’s too cold to have people out of doors for long.”

“We’ll have them take shifts, digging night and day. We need to keep the dead away from the walls for as long as possible.”

She nodded and turned to Sam who quickly left to relay the order. They were pushing their people to the bone, but there was little choice. There was so little time left for them to prepare.

“You don’t have enough stores,” Jaime continued, frowning over the map. He’d shaved his beard, accentuating the strong line of his jaw, and cut his hair, looking far more like himself. She wasn’t certain if she preferred him better this way or not and she wondered why he’d bothered, all things considered. He must have felt her stare, gaze lifting to give her an almost knowing smirk. Sansa pursed her lips and felt her cheeks heat as she looked pointedly away. She tried not to think of the way he'd looked at her the night before or the way his breath had felt on her face, content to behave as though the encounter had never happened. Jaime appeared willing to let her, thus far at least. She could only guess at his motivations.

“I’m aware.”

“With the crops in the garden… we can stretch them _maybe_ three months, at best.”

She nodded and sighed. “The dead will be here soon, Bran says eighteen days at best.”

“Blast,” Jaime cursed, bracing his hands on the table. “I’d hoped to have at least twice as long. Do we know how long until Snow arrives with his army?”

Sansa shook her head. “We’ve no word.” She did not mention seeing Ghost in the snow, though she was certain it was a sign that Jon was near.

Jaime let his head hang for a moment before pushing himself away from the table with another deep sigh and pacing toward the frozen window. There was only blackness beyond; Gods, how she missed the sun. “We can’t depend on them arriving in time. And two thousand is hardly enough to counter fifty thousand, if not twice that number.”

Sansa drew in a sharp breath, eyes darting across the map before her, searching for some answer, some miracle.

“It will have to be enough… and Jon will come.”

Jaime snorted and opened his mouth to say something biting, she was certain, when Devin burst into the room.

“Your Grace, My Lord, the people of Hornwood have arrived. Thanks to our warning, they were able to avoid the dead. They’ve supplies and at least three hundred fighting men and another five hundred women and children capable of holding a weapon. They also managed to bring four catapults.”

Sansa smiled, grateful the people had made it out in time, and nearly as grateful for the supplies and able bodies. “Find space for them Captain, wherever we can fit them, put them in the kitchens if we have to.”

“Your Grace,” he said with a bow, and swiftly left the room.

Jaime studied her sidelong and rolled his eyes at her pleased expression. “It’s a start.”

She turned her attention back to the map before them. “It’s the best we have. Now, what if we set pots of oil here, here, and here?”

-

Arya beamed as Sansa countered four consecutive strikes. “You’re getting better,” she remarked, “If we had half a year you might even be halfway decent with a blade.”

Sansa chuckled and wiped the sweat from her brow. She was dressed in loose trousers and a tunic that was several sizes too large, hair braided securely away from her face. “I do believe that is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” she quoted, voice teasing.

“Well, don’t get used to it, you’re still very girly and weak.”

Sansa grinned and made a sudden sweeping attack that Arya only barely managed to counter. They traded a few more exchanges, Arya still impossibly fast and Sansa only barely adept, before Sansa held her hand up in defeat.

“Sam needs help in the infirmary, I should have been there an hour ago.”

Arya nodded and sighed. “I’ve selected a group of some of the oldest girls, the ones that show the most promise, I’ve been training them personally.” She’d had to turn the bulk of the weapons training over to their guardsmen and the Lannister men, now that they had so many people.

Sansa nodded. “Come find me when you’re done, we need to survey the western wall, Captain Devin had some of the men reinforce it and wants our approval.”

Arya gave her a mocking salute with Needle and left the room. Sansa quickly wrapped herself in a thick leather jacket and tossed her cloak about her shoulders. There was no time to change into a gown and she hurried from the room and through the halls, avoiding going outside into the cold by taking the walkway through the armory. She exchanged a few pleasantries as she passed; the people had taken heart with the arrival of the Lannister army and the people from Hornwood. They had begun to hope again.

Sam seemed relieved to see her when she arrived. He’d done wonders, but he was only one man. He’d found some help in many of the elderly women who had herbal and healing knowledge, and was able to organize them into an effective team as they did what they could for the injured and ill.

“What can I do?” she asked after she’d removed her cloak and cleansed her hands. Sam hesitated, he hated to ask anything of her.

“Well… I’ve finished brewing more tonic for the children, the ones that took ill last week. If y-you could, I mean if it’s not too much _trouble_ -“

Sansa touched his arm, making him flush. “Sam, I want to help, just tell me what you need.”

He nodded, sheepish, and led her to a large cauldron of cooling liquid that smelled strongly of pine and armor polish. “Does wonders for the lungs,” Sam explained when he saw her uncertain expression. Then he showed her how much to measure into each vial, where the stoppers were at, and where to place them when she was done, and left her to it.

It was quiet in her small corner; the infirmary moving around her, the people passing through hardly paying her any attention at all. She lost herself in the simple task, finding that she enjoyed the peace and simplicity of working with her hands. It was the closest to contentment she’d felt since Jon left. It was good to feel useful, she mused, carefully pressing a stopper over a vial and setting it aside. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, what sort of life she might have led if she hadn’t been born Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Maybe she would have learned some craft or skill, like herbalism or midwifery. Perhaps she would have married a farmer or a blacksmith or a tanner, led a simple life, had children, and tended her home and her land. Or maybe she would have married the bastard of Winterfell-

The door behind her burst open, letting in a wave of cold, startling her so badly she nearly dropped the vial in her hand. She turned, brushing aside a strand of hair that had worked itself free, and froze. Her heart leapt into her throat and stayed there. Relief, so acute it brought tears to her eyes, swept over her.

“Jon,” she breathed, unaware the entire infirmary had gone still, watching the reunion of their king and queen with keen interest. His eyes were wide and dark as he stared at her and, after a moment, he gave her a brilliant smile filled with almost painful relief.

She hadn’t meant to. It certainly wasn’t dignified or queenly, but she hardly felt like a queen most days, and it had been so dreadful since he’d left, so she launched herself into him arms with hardly a second thought.

He enveloped her, pulling her tightly to him, his breath hot against her neck as he whispered her name into her shoulder, sending a warm shiver up her spine. He smelled of leather and ice and it was like coming home all over again. As if Winterfell was little more than a pile of stones without him in it. She dug her nails into his back through the layers of his clothing, content to never let go. But he pulled away a moment later, studying her features with a tenderness in his eyes she’d never seen.

_Thank the gods. Thank the gods he’s home._

“Are you well?” he asked softly, color high in his cheeks, and the smile he gave her now was almost shy. Something had shifted between them, something new and delicate that she couldn’t name.

“Yes, I am well,” she breathed, smiling like a fool.

“I came as fast as I could,” he said, moving his hands to her shoulders and flexing his fingers. Looking closer, she saw the dark circles under his eyes, the weariness lingering behind his relief.

“The men-“

He shook his head, almost flinching away from her. “Not here, I came on Rhaegal with some of the others when I received your raven. The army is at least a month behind. The cold has slowed them, the Night King sent a storm.”

That quelled some of her joy and she drew in a shaky breath. “We need to find Jaime and Sam, there is much to tell you.”

Jon frowned, letting his hands fall from her shoulders. “Jaime Lannister?”

“Yes, he arrived a week ago with about five hundred men. He’s been helping us prepare for the attack.”

“I see,” he said, and his expression shuttered closed and his eyes lost much of their warmth. She didn’t have to time to puzzle out his reaction. She could guess well enough; there was no love lost between the Lannisters and Starks, but now was not the time to revive old feuds.

She put on her cloak and took him by the hand, drawing him outside and toward the main keep. His fingers flexed against hers, making her heart skip several beats. Gods, she was so glad he’d come home. Men and women watched their progress, whispering behind their hands and bowing low as they passed; hope and something near to reverence shone in their eyes.

Arya met them as they entered the armory, hurling herself at Jon who swung her around as though she were still a child. Sansa smiled at the display.

“Mi’lord,” a brawny and handsome young man said, coming through the side door that led from the bailey outside, “they’ve a decent stock a weapons bu’-” he stopped abruptly, taking in the scene before him, eyes going wide.

Sansa frowned and turned to find that Arya had gone very still, her face ghostly pale.

“Arya, what-” she began, but was stunned into silence when Arya took two strides forward and punched the startled young man square on the jaw.

“You bloody bleeding bastard!” her sister fumed as the poor man reeled. Jon, quicker than she to recover from the shock, restrained Arya before she could strike again.

“Gendry?” Jon queried, voice hard and eyes confused.

The young man –Gendry, apparently- worked his jaw, seeming more impressed than anything, and said, “It’s nice to see you too, _Lady_ Stark.”

Arya looked as though she might implode, face bright red, and shook Jon off. Sansa was almost certain her sister was about to kill the poor man before something deflated in her eyes and she turned abruptly on her heel and left, slamming the door behind her.

“I thought you said she’d be happy to see you,” Jon mused in the resulting silence.

Gendry chuckled, still rubbing his jaw. There was something… soft, and rather affectionate in his eyes. “She _is_ happy to see me, it’s why she punched me in the face,” he said as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

She and Jon exchanged a bemused glance and she shrugged. She’d long given up trying to understand anything Arya did.

“I, uh, best hunt her down, if Your Grace don’t mind?”

Jon chuckled and nodded. “Don’t be long, I imagine the blacksmith’s apprentice could use some help.”

The man made an unpracticed bow to them both and hurried out the door Arya had fled through. Sansa caught Jon’s eye, confused.

“They traveled together after Arya escaped King’s Landing, apparently,” Jon explained, amusement in his voice. Sansa nodded her head slowly, digesting the information, and took his arm, guiding him out the opposing door.

“You don’t think she’ll kill him, do you?”

He laughed and seemed almost surprised by the sound, as if he’d forgotten he was capable of mirth or pleasure. It warmed Sansa through to hear the sound.

“No, I don’t think so. They’ve some things to work out, however.”

“I see,” she replied, not seeing at all, but they had more pressing concerns.

\--

They found Jaime outside the wall, helping two dozen men and women dig one of the trenches.

“I want every piece of wood covered in oil,” he shouted to several of his soldiers who were pouring a thick, clear substance over a freshly cut pile of timber. He climbed awkwardly from the trench, pickaxe in hand. “We need to be sure it will light.”

The men nodded, struggling with the heavy load, but appeared to douse each log a bit more thoroughly.

Jaime turned then and caught sight of their approach, a derisive smirk curling his lips. He was covered in dirt and mud from the melted snow but it somehow only managed to make him appear more charming.

“Well,” he said with a deeply mocking tone, “If it isn’t the King in the North. Nice of you to show up.”

Sansa glared but Jaimie ignored her. She could feel Jon tense beside her. “Kingslayer, we didn’t expect to see you here,” he said in a cool voice.

“Yes, well, someone had to help your queen manage your defenses,” Jaime replied with mock cheer, handing his pickaxe to the solider he waved forward to take his place.

She caught the clenching of Jon’s jaw from the corner of her eye and resisted the urge to take his hand.

“It doesn’t appear as though you’ve brought an army with you either,” Jaime continued, snatching his cloak from a nearby cart.

“No,” Jon said, voice tight, “but I brought something else.”

The swooping of heavy wings sounded above them and Sansa’s stomach dropped. The dragons terrified her. From the look on Jaime’s face, she wasn’t the only one they frightened.

“Didn’t think she’d part with one of her precious dragons,” he remark, some of the bravado gone.

Something flashed in Jon’s eyes and he looked away, eyes darting skyward where the shadow of something large passed overhead. “It was Rhaegal’s choice, in the end. Daenerys stayed with the army,” he replied, answering Sansa’s silent question. She hated how relieved she felt. They needed every man, woman, and dragon they could get. Now wasn’t that time for pettiness or jealousy or whatever it was she felt whenever she thought of the Dragon Queen.

“Interesting,” Jaimie remarked. “Seems you’re really a Targaryen after all, hum?”

Jon shot her an accusatory look and Jaime scoffed. “Oh it’s not _her_ fault. It wasn’t that difficult to figure out. You didn’t seem the type to go around fucking his sister, _although_ , it is all rather Targaryen of you, isn’t it?”

Jon growled, fury lighting in the depths of his eyes. This time she did take his hand. Of course Jaime would try to push him; it’s how he kept the entire world at bay. If everyone was angry at him, no one would try to fetter out _his_ tender spots. It was funny how clearly she saw somethings now; how easy people were to read when you knew how to look.

Jon’s fingers clenched against hers and he managed to regain some control over himself. “Thank you, Kingsla- _Ser Lannister_ , for what you’ve done here,” he ground out.

Jaime snorted and started for the castle, forcing them to follow after. “ _Please_ tell me you brought more than a single dragon with you.”

They stopped short as they entered through the main gate, revealing three tall, brawny figures standing in the ever falling snow. One was Jon’s wildling friend, Tormund, the other Brienne of Tarth, whom made Sansa’s heart warm to see alive and well, and the last was a man with a half melted face and a hard stare that made her skin prickle with disbelief. She wondered if Arya knew. Jaime stopped short and Brienne’s face went through an interesting array of emotions before settling on gruff disapproval.

“Well, I brought you the Hound,” Jon said in a biting, rather mocking tone, clearly misreading the Kingslayer’s shock, but Jaime didn’t seem to hear him. There was a surprisingly… gentle, almost vulnerable look on his face.

Tormund frowned, looked between Brienne and Jaime, and made a disgusted sort of sound.

“We’ve no time for reunions,” Jon said in a clipped voice. “We have a lot of planning to do and not very much time to do it.”

-

Much later, after hours of deliberation, Sansa nearly screamed when the door to her chambers opened and a figure slipped inside. It was Jon, of course, and she pressed a hand to her breast, trying to still her heart. They’d parted several hours ago, Jon to review all their preparations thus far and Sansa to help Sam once more in the infirmary. Eventually, what felt like years later, she’d trudged her way across the castle to try and steal a bath and a few hours of precious sleep. She’d just stepped from a short bath and wrapped a linen cloth about herself when he entered.

“Oh, Gods, I’m sorry,” he said, only noticing her state of damp undress after he’d shut the door. His face was bright red in the candle and hearth light and he quickly averted his eyes.

“It’s alright,” she blurted, feeling foolish and off kilter, “These are your chambers as much as they are mine.”

“I’ll, uh, sleep elsewhere-“ he began.

“No!” she half shouted before she could consider her motivations or the ramifications of such a command. Surprised, Jon lifted his head and looked at her. The sight of him brought her such contentment, such relief. It always seemed such a miracle, that they were both still alive and back home.

“Y-you should stay. I’m sure you could use a bath. I’ll, uh, I’ll dress and have some food brought up, alright?”

She could see the hesitation in his eyes, the uncertainty, and she wondered what he was thinking. Wondered if he was wishing Sansa were someone else; she quickly closed her heart to the thought. Their marriage was one of convenience. He’d done it to protect her and she’d done it to protect her family and the North, and yes… herself.

She did not blame him for loving Daenerys, but she _was_ jealous of him. She’d never known love, not really, and some secret horrible part of her felt that had things been different… she might have loved _him_. If she’d grown up knowing who he was, without the poison of her mother’s jealousy tainting their hearts...

It wasn’t lost on her that Jon Snow was exactly the sort of man her father would have wanted her to marry, the sort of man she _should_ have wanted to marry, if her head hadn’t been so full of songs. But the world had never been what she wished it and it was entirely pointless to hope otherwise. Jon was kind to her, he was good and brave and he cared about her, in his way. She would take half his heart, no matter what Jaime Lannister said; she knew she’d take whatever he was willing to offer. It would have to be enough.

“Alright,” he agreed at last, hand moving to unfasten his jerkin, stained with days, possibly weeks of hard travel. He would not meet her eye.

Sansa bit her lip, gathering herself, and moved toward the adjoining room where most of her clothing was kept. She had to pass near Jon, and her bare skin prickled, feeling his eyes on her.

When she returned, dressed in her night trail and robe, Jon was already in the large copper tub. His bare arms were splayed across the sides, muscles painted in sharp relief against the firelight, his head titled back.

“Jon?” she asked softly. There was no response. She called his name again, waited another moment, and then took a few steps closer.

He was fast asleep, eyes closed and full lips slightly parted. His chest rising and falling in a steady, easy rhythm. Unbidden, her eyes followed the line of his chest down to the trail of dark hair that disappeared into the shadowed water where she could see nothing else. She had seen very few men in such a state, and she’d certainly never been given the opportunity to enjoy or appreciate it. She’d never wanted to. Not until now.

Jon was beautifully made, hard muscle and lean lines, the light and water dancing on his pale skin, but the scars…

She reached out to touch the one over his heart before consciously deciding to do so. It made her want to weep.

His hand grasped hers gently, startling her so badly she might have toppled over if he hadn’t held her fast.

“I-I’m sorry!” she gasped, mortified and expecting some form of retribution or admonishment, but none came and she looked to his face, unsure.

His eyes were open, but barely, watching her through thick, black lashes. There was a familiar heat in his eyes, one she had never expected to see when he looked at _her_ , and it made an answering warmth ignite in her stomach. He pressed her fingers back to his skin, and she felt the terrible ridges of scar tissue and the beat of his heart beneath. It quickened at her touch.

“I left you alone here,” he rasped, startling her again. He did not release her. “I shouldn’t have.”

She tried to calm her racing heart and wet her lips, mouth going dry as his eyes followed the motion with keen intent. What was happening? Had he had too much wine, perhaps? “Y-you couldn’t have known,” she said weakly, head starting to spin, hardly aware of what she was saying.

His fingers tightened against hers, almost painfully, and his heart was as steady and strong as a war drum beneath her fingers. “Everything you’ve done…” he said, the tone of his voice gruff and warm, feeding the fire growing within her, “you deserve to be Queen, the crown should have been yours all along.”

She ducked her head, red cheeks flaming further, “Don’t say that. Our men-“

“Follow me… but they love you, Sansa.” The way he said her name, with such careful tenderness, as though he were tasting every syllable, brought her gaze back to his. The heat within his eyes nearly consumed her.

He reached out slowly and brushed her loose hair, still damp from her bath, over her shoulder, holding her entranced as his eyes followed the movement of his hand. His fingers traced the line of her cheek and jaw, then down the tendons in her neck, pausing at her leaping pulse, before his eyes found hers again. “Who could help but love you?” he asked in a voice that was almost… sad.

A loud rap on the door made her leap away, nearly tripping on her own robe, and Jon released her.

“Your Grace,” Captain Devin’s voice called. “Ser Jaime is asking for you.”

Sansa was certain the message was meant for her, it seemed unlikely he’d ask for Jon, and she called back in a voice that wavered, “I will be down in a moment! Have him meet me in the Great Hall.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” came Devin’s reply, followed by the sound of his receding footfalls. Her heart was still a wild animal in her breast.

She couldn’t quite make herself look at Jon as she said, “I-I won’t be long. You should… you should get some rest. I’ll bring back some food.”

His reply was short and cool. “Very well.”

Sansa bit her lip, secured her robe more tightly around herself and hurried into her boots and then out into the safety of the hall. Once without, she leaned against the door and shut her eyes, pressing her chill hands against her still flaming cheeks. What in the seven hells had just happened?

She shook her head, feeling foolish, and hurried down the hall.

When she returned a little over an hour later, Jon was gone.

 


End file.
